


what it’s like to be lonely

by LearnedFoot



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Spider-Man: Far From Home Mid-Credits Scene, Resurrected Tony Stark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:42:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28098618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearnedFoot/pseuds/LearnedFoot
Summary: Peter is twenty-one, he’s very drunk, and Mr. Stark has been alive for nine months and three days.But who’s counting?
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 35
Kudos: 235
Collections: Ironspiders Georg Secret Stocking Stuffer Exchange 2020





	what it’s like to be lonely

**Author's Note:**

  * For [unsettled](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/gifts).



> Happy Holidays! I hope you enjoy this fic <3

Peter is twenty-one, he’s very drunk, and Mr. Stark has been alive for nine months and three days.

But who’s counting?

More specifically, Peter’s currently curled up on the sidewalk outside the fancy SoHo bar his college friends insisted on taking him to for his birthday. It was nice in theory, but it turns out loud bars plus being drunk plus super-senses equals a bad combination. God forbid he be allowed to have a good time on his birthday. That would be way too nice of the universe.

He needs to get up. He should definitely not be sitting on the sidewalk outside a bar because, one, that’s not something anyone should do, and two, someone might recognize him and take a picture and then he’s stuck with another round of media frenzy over Peter Parker: Spider-Delinquent, this time with—bonus!—Mr. Stark alive to see it. His hands instinctively rise to pull up his hood before he remembers, oh yeah, he’s wearing a nice button-down.

 _One night without a sweatshirt or jacket_ , he told himself when he was getting ready. _How bad can it be?_

Ha. Ha ha. He should’ve known better.

“Happy birthday to me,” he grumbles at nobody in particular, trying very hard not to resent his friends. That isn’t fair; they were trying to be nice. It’s not their fault that they don’t understand why _just loosen up and have fun for once, Parker_ , doesn’t work.

He groans and drops his head to his knees. He misses Ned so much. Stupid Silicon Valley and its stupid having all the best programming internships and being on the other side of the stupid country. Ned would get it. Ned never would’ve made him come to this bar.

But it isn’t Ned he really wishes he was spending his birthday with right now. And the person he really wishes he was with is not on the other side of the country. He’s alone somewhere on this very island, because his marriage didn’t survive his resurrection and his daughter is at sleepaway camp. And every time he mentions either of those facts his smile gets strained. And he gave Peter his new private number and told him to call whenever. And—

And Peter has a very bad idea.

A _very_ bad idea.

He hasn’t worked up the nerve to use the number yet, because maybe Mr. Stark was just being polite when he said to call. And even if he meant it, no way did “whenever” cover— _fuck,_ when did it get so late?—two in the morning. It very obviously did not mean that. And yet, Peter is pulling out his phone. And pulling up his contacts. And scrolling to _Totally Not Iron Man._ And pressing call.

Listen, Mr. Stark probably won’t answer, and that’ll be fine. Peter will get back up, stumble inside, pretend his head isn’t pounding, and fake having a good time. Hoorah.

“Pete? Is something wrong?”

Or not.

Peter stares at the phone. Is his mind playing tricks on him? Is this a trick?

“Kid? Hello? What’s going on?”

That sounds like Mr. Stark.

Holy shit, Mr. Stark actually picked up. 

Um. What now?

“It’s my birthday,” Peter manages to mumble. Which doesn’t answer Mr. Stark’s question, and is also redundant. Mr. Stark knows; he sent Peter a card and an absurdly nice laptop earlier.

“It’s technically now the day after your birthday, but yes.” Mr. Stark pauses, as if waiting for Peter to say something else. Peter has nothing else to say. He did not think this phone call through. “Mr. Parker, have you been taking advantage of your newly minted status as a person who is legally able to drink?”

Peter nods. Wait. Nodding doesn’t work over the phone. “Yeah.”

“Got it. Let me repeat my question: is something wrong?”

 _Everything_. “No. Nope. Nothing’s wrong, sir. I’m great.”

“Uh-huh. Send me your location.”

“What? No, Mr. Stark, I just wanted to talk to you, you don’t have to—”

“Never mind, F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s found you. Hang tight for fifteen.”

Mr. Stark hangs up before Peter can point out how creepy it is that his A.I. tracked him down in about five seconds flat. With a sigh, he gets to his feet. Might as well say goodbye to his friends.

***

Fifteen minutes later a sleek black car—which Peter instantly recognizes as one of SI’s newest driverless models—pulls up in front of the bar. The back door opens on its own and Peter slides in. He expects the car to be empty, which means he’s completely unprepared to find Mr. Stark sitting in the back seat, wearing oil-stained jeans and t-shirt, precariously balancing three slices of what is definitely one-dollar pizza on a plate in his left hand.

“For the birthday boy,” he says, shoving a slice in Peter’s direction. “Take it from an expert, it’ll help.”

“Thanks.” Peter hadn’t realized he’s starving, but Mr. Stark’s right, it helps. He devours the first slice in under thirty seconds and instantly feels a little less strung out. He gratefully takes another.

Mr. Stark chuckles. “Maybe I should’ve sprung for more pizza.”

Peter pauses with the second slice inches from his mouth. “No! It’s super amazing you picked me up at all. You really didn’t need to do that, Mr. Stark.”

Mr. Stark shrugs, a tossed-off gesture, as if rescuing drunk mentees in the middle of the night is no big deal. “You sounded pretty miserable. You shouldn’t be miserable on your birthday.”

“I—” The words _wasn’t miserable_ get stuck halfway up his throat. He was miserable, and it’s kind of nice that Mr. Stark realized, not to mention cared enough to come. Kind of really nice. The kind of nice that makes Peter feel like he’s sixteen years old again, still naïve enough to think everything will always be okay because Iron Man has his back. “Yeah. Thanks. That was really nice of you. But you don’t have to drive me all the way home or anything, I can take the subway…”

Mr. Stark looks at him like the very idea is scandalous. “Absolutely not. If you want to go back to Queens, we head to Queens.”

Yeah, on second thought, he’s not sure why he even bothered trying that. “ _If_? What’s my other option?”

Mr. Stark clears his throat, shoving the third slice in Peter’s direction. Peter hadn’t noticed finishing the second. “I was thinking you could come back to mine. We could order another pizza, or five.”

Peter glances at his pizza, then back at Mr. Stark, who looks strangely vulnerable. There are bags under his eyes, and his skin is pale in the flickering glow of passing streetlights. Was he still awake when Peter called? Is that why he smells like he came straight from the lab?

“Okay,” Peter agrees.

“Great!” Mr. Stark lights up, morphing into his usual confident self. He glances at the roof of the car. “Honey, you hear that? I want two large peperoni pizzas at the apartment ASAP. With onions on one of them.”

Peter freezes, heart skipping a beat and back-flipping in the same moment, leaving him breathless.

“You remembered?”

“That you don’t appreciate the majesty of the mighty onion?” Mr. Stark makes a face. “How could I forget?”

It’s true that they argued about pizza toppings a lot, back in the lighthearted days of the high school internship. But that was years ago for either of them. Peter didn’t think Mr. Stark would keep information that useless in his brain for so long. He sinks back into his seat, dizzy. The booze, probably. Definitely not because he’s suddenly overwhelmed.

“I only didn’t like them on pizza, I wasn’t crazy,” he defends. “And besides, I like it now.”

“Oh, is that so? F.R.I., fix the order.”

“That is so,” Peter confirms. “Very so.” Now that he’s slumping, his exhaustion melts along his bones, leaving him mellow and hollowed out from a long night. He lets his eyes close. “Started eating it in your honor.”

That’s probably not something he should say out loud. They don’t talk about the time they spent apart. Not like this. Broad strokes of what happened, yes; how they mourned each other? No. No way. As soon as Mr. Stark returned to SI he invited Peter to intern for credit and that was that: back to science, as if no time had been lost at all.

“Sorry,” Peter adds, words fading. These seats are super comfortable. “Is that weird? I’m not trying to be weird. I just missed you.”

“Go to sleep, Pete.” Mr. Stark’s voice is tight, like he’s trying very hard to control his tone. His knuckles brush Peter’s jaw. “I’ll wake you up when we’re there.”

***

Peter is still blurry-eyed and kind of woozy when they arrive at the penthouse. Which is mind-blowing, by the way. Fifty floors up, with floor-to-ceiling glass windows on both sides of the living room. The city sparkles all around them.

“Whoa,” Peter breathes, waking up a little. This place is definitely even nicer than the apartment Mr. Stark used to have before the blip. Of course, he was spending a lot of time at the old compound, back then. “You live here?”

Mr. Stark laughs, deep and rich. His hand finds the small of Peter’s back, pushing him forward, through the magazine-perfect furniture in the living room to a massive kitchen that looks like it costs a million dollars all on its own. Peter has no idea what makes a kitchen expensive, but this one clearly has whatever it is: everything is gleaming or granite and fits together in a way that just screams _cool_.

Out of nowhere, he finds a glass of water in his hands. He looks up at Mr. Stark, who gestures for him to drink. He does, and it’s incredible.

“Does water always taste this good?” he asks when the glass is empty.

“Does when you’re wasted.” Mr. Stark takes the glass and replaces it with another. “Pizza should be here soon. Do you want a tour once you’re done pounding back that H2O?”

Actually, what Peter wants is to sit down and maybe never stand up, but Mr. Stark has that air of vulnerability again, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he waits for Peter’s answer. In the brighter lights of the penthouse, it’s easy to see exactly how tired he looks.

So Peter agrees to the tour, and he doesn’t hold back on making it known how amazing the whole apartment is. The kitchen, the multiple bedrooms (one for Tony, one for Morgan, two guest rooms), the office, the small lab space—the entire place is modern and sleek, and each room has awesome views.

“I really love it,” Peter says earnestly as Mr. Stark shows him the final guest room. “It’s great.”

“Yeah?” It’s weird how pleased Mr. Stark seems about that. “Decorated it all myself. Well, paid someone to decorate it. But I made the decisions.”

He looks at Peter as if he should find this impressive, so Peter gives a thumbs up, which is maybe the least cool thing he’s ever done. He quickly shoves his hands into his back pockets, blushing.

“Good job,” he says, which is better than the thumbs up. “It’s…yeah. I mean, easily the nicest apartment I’ve ever been in.”

Mr. Stark beams. “You’re welcome any time. Seriously.” He knocks on the doorframe of the guest room. “This room has your name on it.”

Does he really mean that? It’s hard to believe, but then, Peter also wasn’t sure if Mr. Stark really wanted him to call and look how that turned out. Either way, it’s a nice idea.

“Thanks,” he says. “You should be careful, I might take you up on that.”

Mr. Stark reaches out, carefully wrapping his hand around Peter’s wrist. The prolonged contact is a surprise; Peter can’t help himself from shivering at the callused fingers on his skin. He doesn’t get touched much, these days.

“I want you to take me up on it, Pete.”

“Oh.” Tears build in the back of Peter’s eyes. He wants to say more, but he can’t possibly put words to why he’s so painfully grateful for the offer. He’s not really sure himself.

The moment is interrupted by F.R.I. announcing the pizza has arrived. Mr. Stark squeezes Peter’s wrist and then drops it, heading to the door. He shouts over his shoulder for Peter to go make himself comfortable in the kitchen, which Peter does by hopping up onto the giant kitchen island to sit. 

When Mr. Stark returns to the kitchen a minute later with two large pizza boxes in his hand, he gives Peter a bemused look.

“I have stools, you know.”

Peter shrugs. The move was second nature; he spends a lot of time sitting on the counter that separates his kitchen from the rest of his tiny studio, because there’s no room in there for chairs. But that’s not something he wants to say out loud to _Tony Stark_.

“I like being high.” Wait, that sounds wrong, too. “Um, up. Not like, _high_.”

Mr. Stark snorts. “Okay, weirdo.”

“Yep, I’m a weirdo,” Peter agrees, kicking his legs, exaggerated. “Is my invitation rescinded?”

He means it as a joke, but Mr. Stark looks dead serious as he replies, “Never.”

“Oh.”

They fall into silence, Peter perched on the island, Mr. Stark leaning against the counter across from him, spending more time observing Peter eat than eating himself. Peter has no idea what to say to any of this. Maybe it’s his drunk brain talking, but he’s starting to think Mr. Stark is a lot lonelier than he thought. Not casually lonely, but alone in a way that makes him desperate to invite people into his home. To invite _Peter_ into his home. To open it up at the first opportunity, as if he’s been waiting for the chance.

As if maybe he wants Peter around as badly as Peter wants to _be_ around. Which would be immensely flattering. And yet…maybe not good.

Thing is, Peter knows what it’s like to be lonely. He doesn’t want someone he cares about to feel that way. 

“Mr. Stark?” he finally asks. “Are you okay?”

Mr. Stark tilts his head, curious. “Me? You’re the one who’s going to have a hell of a hangover in the morning. How much do you even have to drink to get like this, with those powers?”

“A lot,” Peter admits. Like, a _lot_. “But that’s not what I mean.”

“Color me confused. What do you mean, spiderling?”

Peter swallows. He should drop this, but— _fuck it_. If he doesn’t ask now he’ll probably never have the courage again. Drunk brain has to have some upsides.

“I mean in general. Are you okay with, you know…everything?”

The change is instantaneous: Mr. Stark crosses his arms, hunching in on himself, defensive. “Why do you ask?”

“Because you kind of don’t seem okay?”

The hunch gets deeper, as if Mr. Stark can manifest a suit around him with his movements.

“Bold, coming from the kid who’s miserable on his own twenty-first birthday.” He thrusts an accusing finger in Peter’s direction. “ _I_ should be the one asking if _you’re_ okay.”

It’s a challenge: if Peter pushes, Mr. Stark is going to push right back. But they’re in too deep to back out now.

To repeat: fuck it.

“I asked first.”

Mr. Stark laughs humorlessly. “Fine. No, kid, I’m not okay. You?”

“Nope. Not even a little bit.”

The weight of that falls over the room, silence thicker than before, almost tangible. Struck by a half-formed idea, Peter slides off the island onto his feet. Mr. Stark tilts his head was he watches Peter approach, expression unreadable, but he doesn’t draw back when Peter reaches out and grasps his wrist, a mirror of what Mr. Stark did before. 

Peter tugs, lightly, just enough to get Mr. Stark to stumble forward into his arms, then wraps him in a hug, arms around his shoulders, face tucked into his neck. Mr. Stark responds instantly: one hand slips across Peter’s back, the other rests on his neck. His nose nudges the top of Peter’s hair, gentle.

“What’s this for?” he asks, breath warm against Peter’s scalp, sending goosebumps down his spine.

Peter shrugs and nuzzles closer. “It makes everything a little more okay.”

Mr. Stark hums in agreement, and pulls him tight.

***

They stay like that until Peter yawns so loudly it’s impossible to ignore.

“Bedtime,” Mr. Stark says, breaking the spell of the moment. But his eyes are soft when they look Peter over. He runs his fingers through Peter’s hair, smoothing it. “Someone’s had a long night.”

Peter sticks out his tongue, and Mr. Stark laughs, deep and warm. It makes Peter melt a little.

They put the pizza away and then get ready for bed. Mr. Stark lends Peter a pair of pajama pants and a t-shirt that almost hangs off his shoulder. The guest bathroom has a spare toothbrush, but he has to borrow Mr. Stark’s toothpaste.

He’s yawning and half asleep by the time he stumbles back down the hall to Mr. Stark’s room, intending to return the toothpaste. When he gets there, Mr. Stark is leaning in his doorframe looking contemplative. 

“Thanks,” Peter says, holding out the crinkled tube. “For everything. You rescued my night.” 

“My pleasure.” Mr. Stark takes the toothpaste, fingers brushing Peter’s lightly. Then, suddenly, he tosses the tube to the side, grabs Peter’s shoulders, and spins, pinning him against the wall in the hall. He leans in until his lips are hovering so close Peter can almost taste them.

“W-what?” Peter stammers, exhaustion instantly replaced with a rush of arousal. “Mr. Stark?”

Rather than answering, Mr. Stark closes the distance, lips landing softly and then moving just as carefully, as if he’s asking a question. Peter answers with a muffled _oh_ , mouth opening, allowing the kiss to deepen. Mr. Stark’s lips are wet and soft, his beard tickles a little, he tastes like onions and tomato sauce.

It’s perfect.

Mr. Stark breaks the kiss, tipping his head to press their foreheads together. “I meant it about being welcome anytime. For the record, you wouldn’t have to stay in the guest room if you don’t want to.”

Peter’s glad he’s braced against the wall, because otherwise he might fall, shock and booze and desire forming a dangerous cocktail. “I— _what_?”

Mr. Stark brushes his thumb under Peter’s eye, where he knows he’s sporting bags just as deep as the ones on Mr. Stark’s face. “We could be not okay together. If you want.” Another kiss, this one so brief Peter barely as time to feel it before it’s over. “Sleep on it, let me know tomorrow. Or whenever, no pressure. Just, think about it.”

“I don’t need to think about it,” Peter replies immediately. Without thinking. Which, er, maybe he actually should do. But even though he kind of has no idea what the hell just happened— _is_ happening—he also one-hundred percent knows what his answer is going to be. “I’m in. Not okay together. Sounds great. Yes, please.”

Mr. Stark steps back, breaking contact, but his smile is fond. “I appreciate the enthusiasm, but you really should sleep on it.”

“Mr. Stark—”

Peter’s protest is cut off with a finger on his lip. “Pete, take a hint. It’s after three in the morning, I’m exhausted, you’re drunk. I’m trying to spare us both some embarrassment. Let’s revisit the topic when at least one of us is fit to do something about it.”

Fair point. Very fair, given that Peter is swaying on his feet. “Okay. But, yes. I’m going to say yes.”

“And I’ll be very happy to hear that tomorrow.” Despite his confident tone, Mr. Stark’s eyes betray relief. He grabs Peter’s hand, raising it to his lips and pressing a kiss to his palm. “Happy birthday, Peter Parker. See you in the morning.”

And then he disappears into his room, leaving Peter alone in the hall.

 _What the fuck_ , Peter mouths. Is it possible he got so drunk he hallucinated this whole night? Is he actually passed out on the street somewhere?

Will he be a complete cliché if he pinches himself? He does it anyway.

“Okay,” he says out loud. “Guess that was real.”

At a loss for what else to do, he wanders back to the guest room and flops onto the bed, grinning so hard it hurts. It’s an unfamiliar feeling; his muscles are out of practice.

“Hoy shit,” he whispers. “Was this secretly the best birthday ever?”

Maybe, maybe not. He’ll have to see how tomorrow goes.

But at least he can say this for sure: it’s really great to fall asleep with a smile on his face.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, feedback is loved <3


End file.
